


A Study in Pink

by holmespluswatson



Series: A Study in John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, i think those are the big ones, i'm too lazy to tag every single character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmespluswatson/pseuds/holmespluswatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically A Study in Pink mixed up a little so that it's in book format, everything in John's point of view and occasionally a few scenes from A Study in Scarlet modernized. There's eventual johnlock on John's part, I swear. They just...don't act on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Hope I got the first part right! I only lightly researched, nothing too extensive, so if you see anything that's not quite right, just let me know. I own none of this, obviously. Just trying to have a little fun. Enjoy!

In 1998 I received my medical degree at King's College London and then went to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital to train as a doctor. Once I completed my studies there, I became attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in Afghanistan then, and for me it brought nothing but disaster.

I was shot in the shoulder by a depleted uranium bullet that shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery.

I was removed from battle and taken to the base hospital. I stayed there for a while, and had already improved so much that I was able to walk around the wards. But the medical board decided that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England so I was dispatched and landed later in England.

I had no family or friends in London, save my one sibling who I hadn't seen in centuries, and was free to do whatever I wanted with myself — or as free as an income of 48 pounds a day would let me be. Under the circumstances, I naturally went to London, the place that everyone seems to end up in eventually. There I stayed for some time at a small bedsit, leading a comfortless, meaningless, and, I'l admit, mildly depressed life, spending what money I had probably more freely than I should have. It didn't take me long to realize that I had to either leave London and go somewhere in the country or I had to make a complete change in my style of living. Deciding to change my style, I started by making up my mind to leave the bedsit and live in some less expensive flat. Or get a flatmate.

On the day that I'd decided this, I was walking through Russel Square Park, on my way to go look for a decent flat to stay at (or, at least, a cheap one), when someone called my name and I recognized Mike Stamford, who had been a mate of mine at Bart's. We never saw each other outside of work and seeing him then nearly twelve years later was surprising. Even though, like I said, we never saw each other outside of work, Mike seemed to be rather happy to see me.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at," Mike had said, shaking my hand. "What happened?"

I wasn't exactly comfortable with telling Mike about all the troubles I'd had to endure at war, and so replied simply, "I got shot."

Trust issues. That's what my therapist, Ella, had said. Fat lot of good that did. It wasn't as if I could help it. Being in the war had damaged my trust in people. And so I was always a bit wary around anyone. Even good old Mike Stamford.

In response to my answer, Mike seemed a bit embarrassed (probably remembering that we hadn't spoken in twelve years and had almost nothing in common except for our medical degrees) and suggested that we grab a quick cup of coffee and talk for a bit. Hesitantly, I agreed. Flat-seeing could wait, probably.

Soon enough, we'd gotten our coffees and were sitting at the park bench Mike had previously been sitting at.

After a small and rather awkward silence (in my opinion, at least), I looked to Mike, asking, "Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now," Mike answered. "Bright young things, like we used to be." Then, good-naturedly, he added, "God, I hate them."

I couldn't help but chuckle along with Mike, remembering my days at Saint Bartholomew's like it was yesterday. And yet, at the same time, it seemed like it had happened so, so long ago. Funny how that works.

After another moment, seeming to become a bit more comfortable (and, I have to admit, I was becoming more comfortable as well. It had been a long time since I'd seen a familiar face and it reminded me of my younger days spent drinking coffee with Mike at the labs, starting to make me feel like a young adult again and not the old man I'd grown accustomed to feeling like due to my cane), Mike asked, "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension," I replied. It was a shame, really. I liked London. I'd started to become more and more a man of habit upon my return to England, and found myself reluctant to leave the one city I finally felt welcome to and where people weren't constantly shooting at me.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," Mike said with an amused smile. "That's not the John Watson I know."

That sort of annoyed me. What did Mike know? He hadn't seen me in twelve whole years. That's more then a decade. People change. Just because Mike had been a mate of mine in the past didn't mean he knew all about me. "Yeah, and I'm not the John Watson..."

I couldn't finish. That wasn't fair, really. Mike was a people person. He thought he was friends with everyone. So, naturally, he assumed he was a close friend of mine.

There was yet another silence (why did it have to be so awkward?) and I quietly took another sip of my coffee, having to switch hands and move the cup to my right hand so I could clench my left to try and stop the tremor.

Dunno why, but my hands would sometimes tremble. It was annoying, making me feel even more like an old man. Stupid thought, probably, but I couldn't help it. A limp, a cane, a weak shoulder, trembling hands...Just like my granddad used to be.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked, trying hard to get me to talk, I could tell.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," I replied, unable to hold back the sarcastic tone. Harry wouldn't help me. Harry was too busy drinking and and partying or whatever it was Harry did. I wasn't so sure. We hadn't spoken in... _years_.

Mike shrugged. "I dunno - get a flatshare or something?" he suggested.

"Come on," I said with a disbelieving smile. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled thoughtfully and I couldn't help but ask, "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," he replied, smiling at me.

Strange. Quite the coincidence. But then, it's said there's no such thing as coincidences. "Who was the first?" I then asked curiously.

"Oh, just a bloke who works at the chemical lab up at the hospital," Mike said with a shrug before taking another sip of his coffee. "He was talking about how he must've been a tough guy to find a flatmate for. Something about how he'd found a nice place but couldn't afford it, I think."

That was lucky. "Well, if he really wants someone to share a flat with, then I guess I'd be interested."

Mike looked up at me with a really strange expression that might have been amusement. "Yeah, but you don't know him yet," he said. "You probably wouldn't want him as a flatmate, now that I think about it."

"How come?" I asked, looking over at Mike, confused.

"Oh, he's is just a bit...strange," Mike said casually. "As far as I know he's a decent enough guy, though. Most of the time."

Most of the time? "He doesn't happen to be a doctor like I am, does he?"

"Nah." Mike shook his head. "I have no idea what he does for a living. He's got degrees in everything, I'll bet. Biochemistry and chemistry are the big ones, if his work is anything to go by. But I don't think he's taken any medical courses, no. He likes...trivia. Well, not exactly trivia, but he knows a lot of things most people don't give a hoot about and, apparently, his little trivia is quite useful to him."

"You never asked him what he majored in?" I asked.

"No...He doesn't really like talking about himself very much. But, then again, sometimes you just can't get him to shut up."

"Well, I need a place to stay and if this chemistry mate of yours is looking for someone to share a flat with, then I guess I'll have to meet him at some point," I said with a bit of a shrug.

"He's probably at the lab now, actually," Mike replied. "He either avoids the place for weeks or he works there non-stop from morning to night. If you want to, we can go over there now..."

"Yeah, sure. Why not," I answered, finishing my coffee.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

As we made our way to the hospital soon later, Mike kept giving me tips and telling me things about what this bloke was like. All really mysterious stuff, to be honest. It was things like, 'Don't blame me if you don't get on well with each other. You said you wanted to meet him, so don't hold me responsible.' What was I going to hold him responsible for?

I tried asking Mike if this particular bloke had a bad temper or something (why else would he talk about about us not getting on well?), but Mike's reply was once again, if not even more, mysterious. 

"It's not easy to describe the indescribable," he said with a laugh. He's is a little too scientific, just on the verge of cold-blooded. He's the sort of guy that doesn't care about feelings and manners. In fact, I could just see him drugging a mate of his in the name of science. Anyway, here we are. You can find out for yourself what you think of him."

As he spoke, we turned a corner and walked through a dim hallway towards a lab, and, soon enough, Mike pushed open one of the double doors and I followed him in.

It was all slightly familiar to me, even though it had been greatly updated since the last time I'd been there (yet another thing to make me feel old). Low tables were scattered around the room, most of which held various test tubes and other scientific stuff that I wasn't even sure I knew the names of (like I said, it had been greatly updated).

There was only one person in the room, and he was on the far end of the lab, using a pipette over a Petri dish. He looked up at us for just a second before going back to staring down at the dish while I limped inside, looking around at all the new equipment I'd never even known existed before then.

"Well, bit different from my day," I couldn't help but say, ignoring how very old it made me sound.

Mike chuckled at this. "You've no idea."

The young man who had previously been standing in the far side of the lab then sat down, suddenly saying, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." It didn't sound much like a question, more like an order, but Mike seemed unfazed and quite used to this.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" He asked.

"I prefer to text," the young man said in reply, staring at his phone screen.

"Sorry," Mike replied, though in all honesty, he didn't sound much sorry at all. "It's in my coat."

Suddenly remembering that I had my own phone to offer, I dug into my pocket, pulling it out. "Er, here. Use mine," I said, holding it out to him.

"Oh." The man seemed rather surprised by my offer. "Thank you."

He briefly looked over at Mike as if to ask 'Who's this?' as he stood and walked over to me, taking my phone out of my hand.

Mike said, watching the two of us with that amused expression, "It's an old friend of mine. John Watson."

As the young man flipped open the keypad and turned partially away from me, I finally managed to get a good look at him, even if it was brief.

He was tall (very), possibly six feet. At least a head taller then I was. And he wore a rather posh looking suit, one of those blazer and slacks kind, though it seemed a bit tight fitting. Whether that was on purpose or simply accident, I wasn't so sure. The man had curly dark hair, a mixture between black and brown, and his eyes were a strange sort of blue with a bit of gray and green and yellow mixed in. I don't believe in my entire career as a doctor I have ever seen eyes as colourful and strange as his. He looked to be somewhere in his late twenties or possibly early thirties. Overall, his suit and strange eyes and high cheekbones made him look important, and the way that he held himself, very straight and stiff, made him seem like he thought he was better then everyone else. My very first thought upon seeing him, if I remember correctly, was that he was a cocky, possibly arrogant, sort of man, and, as I realized soon later, I wasn't far off at all.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The young man's deep voice interrupted my observations and I blinked in confusion.

Afghanistan or Iraq? Was he asking about the war? How could he have possibly known that I'd been in the army?

I frowned, looking over at Mike for an explanation, but he only smiled knowingly. Fat lot of use he was.

I then looked back over at the man, asking in a confused tone, "Sorry?"

"Which was it; Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked again, eyes flickering up from my phone and to me before quickly looking back down at the mobile.

I once again frowned, looking to Mike, who, once again, did absolutely nothing.

After hesitating a moment, I said, "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?"

The man seemed about to answer, but just then the door was opened by a young woman with ginger hair wearing a lab coat, carrying a cup of coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," the young man said, closing my phone and handing it back to me before walking up to the girl, Molly, and taking the mug of coffee from her. He stared at her for a long while before finally saying, "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly smiled awkwardly up at him and replied, "It wasn't working for me."

I instantly felt sorry for this Molly girl who obviously fancied the man, and yet he didn't seem interested in her in the slightest. Shame. She seemed really sweet. I felt even more sorry for her at the man's next words.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's...too small now."

Who says that to a girl? An obviously very sweet girl who probably would've been pleased just to get a 'thank you' from the man. But, no, instead she was being critiqued. Rather rude of him.

The man didn't seem to realize the error of his ways and he turned, heading back to his station as he took a sip.

"...Okay," Molly said quietly, obviously fighting back something, but whether that something was a sob or a shout, I wasn't sure.

I watched her sympathetically as she abruptly turned and left, the young man's voice once again snapping me out of my thoughts.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

_Now_  who was he talking to? Not Molly, she was on her way out. And not Mike, who was _still_ smiling smugly at the both of us. Which meant the man had been talking to me. "I'm sorry, what?"

The man began typing something into his phone again as he said, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looked up at me and I caught another good look at those strange multi-coloured eyes. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

He gave me a terribly false smile that I decided I never wanted to see again. It was terrible. As if he could somehow mock all of human nature just by fake smiling.

I just stared at him for a short while, trying to contemplate what was going on. Then, looking to Mike, I said, "Oh, you...you told him about me?" How else could the man have known about my being in Afghanistan? And that I was there for a flatshare compromise?

Mike, smug as ever, replied, "Not a word."

I looked back to the young man, even more confused, and asked, "Then...who said anything about flatmates?"

The young man turned, walking over to one of the tables and snatching up his dark Belstaff coat as he said, "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

Well, I had to give him credit, the flatmate bit _was_ easy to work out. If you thought about it, of course. But...Afghanistan?

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" I asked, but my question was ignored.

The man wrapped a dark blue scarf around his neck as he pulled out his phone again, checking it. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it."

The man then walked up to me, and I had to look up at him, something I didn't like much. He didn't seem... _threatening_ , no, but he just seemed oddly amused. As if Mike and I were somehow funny to him. Like children. Yeah, he was looking at me like I was nothing more then an inexperienced child and I didn't like it.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock," he said. "Sorry; gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He put his phone in his coat pocket and promptly turned, heading for the door.

"Is that it?" I asked, trying to contain my annoyance at his...aloofness, turning to look at him.

The man stopped, turning round, and walked back over to me, standing even closer so I had to look up even more to meet his eyes. "Is that what?"

"We've just met and were going to go look at a flat?"

The man's lips twitched, maybe into a tiny smile, and there it was again. That look that made me feel like a primary schooler. "Problem?"

I smiled in disbelief. Problem? Yes, there was a problem! I didn't know a thing about him! And he didn't know a thing about me. Of course, Mike had said he was decent, but was he decent enough to live with?

I looked to Mike for help, but, you guessed it, the git did nothing.

"We don't know a thing about each other," I said, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The man stared at me for a long while and I couldn't help but feel as if his bright and yet cold eyes were looking right through me. They probably were, now that I think about it.

Finally, he said in a quieter tone, very serious, "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid."

I couldn't hold his gaze any longer. How could I? He'd just told me all about myself! And he'd never known I had existed before that day. It was terrifying, really. But I couldn't let this man know that. He seemed just the type to enjoy terrifying people and I wasn't about to satisfy him.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He asked in a cheeky tone I wasn't sure I liked, going once again over to the door while I stared after him in shock. It seemed he did this sort of thing often.

The man started to leave, but then he leaned back inside against the door, saying, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street."

He did one of those click-wink things at me, sending a nonchalant "Afternoon," in Mike's direction, to which Mike casually waved.

The door slammed shut and I slowly looked over at Mike, who chuckled softly and said, "Yeah. He's always like that."


End file.
